Big Top from Uh Oh by Mutant Sidekicks

Big Top

Stranded in the heartland, broke and left for dead,
Praying for salvation or a bullet in the head.
Working in a coalmine, going down, down, down,
Wandering the mall built on ancient tribal ground.
Then faintly in the distance, there are trumpets and grand drums,
And a voice in a megaphone, pitching miracles to come,
For a minimal downpayment, a small outlay of cash,
You can see dreams tower through the clouds, and glitter in the trash.

It’s all under the Big Top, so many wonderous things,
A donkey that can count to ten, an elephant that sings.
A girl that swallows flaming swords while talking on the phone,
A mongoloid that tap dances, and plays the saxophone!

The barker lifts his horn and bellows: “Folks, I’d like to say,
Thank you to the little guys who made this possible today.
Now please direct your attention to the center ring,
Ignore those dark stains in the sawdust, they don’t mean a thing,”
Then a monkey in a crimson fez, smoking a cigar,
Enters in a painted cart pulled by a unicorn,
A troop of clowns are close behind him in their little car,
They wave their arms, and shake their fists, and honk their little horn.

It’s all under the Big Top, folks, high drama and lots of thrills,
Sorry, the cost overruns must be added to your bill.
But it’s a trifling price to see so many things you won’t believe,
And even more fantastic monsters yet to be concieved!

Back in his darkened trailer, in the dim latern glow,
The clown blinks back the bitter questions that haunt him after every show,
He folds up his gaudy hopes, and packs up his tired guarantees,
Alone at night, with his clown hankie, he mops up his dreams!

Behind the scenes the boss is sound asleep at the controls,
Wrapped in broken Christmas lights, on a rickety scaffold,
Below the mob is restless, they howl and stomp the floor,
But there isn’t much to show them that they haven’t seen before.
The roar of the greasepaint, the stinking of the crowd,
That little monkey on a leash that makes his master proud.
It’s not exactly business, and you could never call it art,
And murder twitches like a sleeping fetus in it’s heart.

It’s all under the Big Top, a tired and smarmy tale,
But in a sharp new costume it’s enough to make the sale.
The ticket’s kind of pricey, the scenery’s pretty bare,
But if we all pretend it means something, we can all pretend we care.

• Rock
• San Francisco